WRITING HISTORIES OF CLIMATE CHANGE

"Why are there so many roads?"
Ron was confused. For his birthday, Ron was given a car — a shiny car at that — a huge shiny car with bright purple wheels and crazy sound effects.
Whoosh.
(He liked that sound that it made. He felt it reflected his current mood.)
Satisfied Whoosh.
But as Ron drove around the town, passing the fountain in the middle of the roundabout to pass the hospital, the beach, police station, and post office all so, so, so close to each other, Ron felt like he was losing the point.
"Why is this town nothing but roads? It's just roads upon roads upon parking lots upon roads. Where are the sidewalks, the pedestrians?"
Confused Whoosh.
"There's so many roads because, you have to understand Ronald, it's about the journey, not the destination, honey. And about freedom" his mom replied.
"But I hate the journey! And. . . I hate freedom! It's so. . . it's so… horrid."
"Well, hon. That's just the way it is."
Resigned Whoosh.
Ron pushed his little toy car across the playmat, dissatisfied. Why, Ron wondered, was I given a playmat of a bunch of roads to play with? Why, Ron wondered, is a car considered an ample gift for an eight-year-old? Yes, Ron thought, I know the word 'ample' even though I am only eight years old, because, Ron thought, I have above average intelligence.
"Why did you get this playmat for me, Mom?"
"Ronald, cars are fun! They go fast! And they make that cool sound you like!"
Ron raised an eyebrow.
Unsatisfied with that answer Whoosh.
Ron sat and stared, making eye contact with his mother almost long enough for her to see behind his glazy, beautiful hazelnut eyes that she so often adored in him, that she raved about to her girlfriends at work, those beautiful donut eyes behind which she almost saw a glimmer of profound intelligence, of an ability to see through the veneer of society and uncover the deeper mechanisms that pulled it like a marionette with the forces of capital and consumption — all at only eight years old.
But she didn't see that.
She just saw those gorgeous hazelnut eyes.
"Oh Ronald," Mother admitted, "I got it for you because Google recommended it in top toys for eight-year-olds, nothing more. I thought maybe cars could be a new interest!"
"Mommy," Ron continued, realizing he was too close to playing his cards and needed to play dumb, or as Ron liked to think, play actually eight-years-old, "but I want a toy bus."
"Why Ronald, that's absurd!"
"Buses are awesome! They go fast, have lots of people, and are HUGE! A bus could run over a car at any point. A bus would always win."
"But Ronnie, they don't make toy buses! Cars are so smooth and fast and cool, and they go woosh!"
"But a bus can make a better sound!"
Emphatic HONK!
"Oh Ronnie, I think you are the only eight-year-old in the entire United States who wants a toy bus rather than a toy car."
Ronnie wanted to rant. Of course, I am the only eight-year-old in the entire United States who wants a toy bus rather than a toy car. But I know they exist in Europe, or Asia, those eight-year-olds who would prefer public transportation because it creates less congestion, reduces carbon emissions, and overall contributes to a higher sense of community and common shared space! In America, we simply don't have that because we give our children toy cars to play with, indoctrinating them into BIG AUTOMOBILE at a wee, wee, age (Ronnie was picking up steam, now), telling them that they can drive themselves now! you can charge them overnight now! cars are fun! cars are the future! But they only are the future, only are the present, for fuck's sake (Ron learned that word from his cousin Ned, who went to Juvey. It felt kind of naughty, but he liked that feeling. It gave his words vengeance.), because these are the stories we tell ourselves, and these are the stories we pass on to our kids when we buy them street map play rugs and purple hot wheels and teach them to say whoosh and to like machinery that moves fast, and that efficiency and individualism and the freedom to drive across the country on a moment's notice are the hallmarks of a good, American, life, and that is all a good American life will ever be. Defined by a car, no, two cars, no, three cars when the kids can start to drive, buying a moment of convenience at the cost of the planet, speeding around our silly little roads with greater franticness, almost as a function of our planet's warming, cars speeding faster and faster, whizzing around our little ball of warming air, until one day it will all come back and bite us in the ass (also from Ned. I hope he is well, Ronnie thought) but at least we will be driving around this world that is dying, exploding, bursting at the seams with the weight of the dinosaurs who once roamed the planet now exhumed into the atmosphere from centuries of carbon transportation — at least we will be able to drive ourselves to Target in a Tesla (at least our cars will be electric now, like the damage isn't already done, Ron sarcastically quipped), or have a self-driving car get us there. And at that moment, wet sock temperature reached, humanity cooking alive in the oven that we ourselves lit on fire, in that moment, kids in America will be given playmats with nothing but roads and scorched Earth, as they drive around town in their Teslas, passing the fountain in the middle of the roundabout to pass the hospital, the beach, police station, and post office all so, so, so close to each other, but never losing the point, never failing to believe that this was the right path. That individual transportation was worth it all, worth the lives lost from fires and floods and droughts and famines, all striking the lands that we never traversed in our automobiles, lands that maybe didn't have automobiles because we took all the minerals and resources from them to build our inevitable American Teslas, people dead because we wanted a Tesla, a self-driving car, because bro, it's just so cool. And in this future, with the planet scorched and the Earth dying, Teslas whirring around those last humans left, the people will think it was all worth it. We made the right decision. And driving home from the church of Elon, who replaced God and the Universe and the Divine in his hegemonic quest for automobile imperialism, our descendent, your descendant, my descendent (Fuck! Ron realized. His descendants would be implicated in this future, too!) will be content, and look out at the hellfire exploding across the sky that the real God, the real Universe, the real Divine sent to us in an urgent message — STOP — and think oh how pretty the sunset is.
"Oh just isn't the sunset pretty, Ron"
"Yes, Mom, I love sunsets!"
Content Whoosh.
And just like that, Ron thought, history will repeat itself, but with a Ron who is unaware of just how deeply we are screwed. Unless, Ron thought, I can break this cycle now, stop these emissions and get people to see that maybe, just maybe a self-driving car isn't worth it, and Teslas are not the future of transportation, that we need a complete revolution rather than a continuation of today, we are doomed. Really, at the end of it all, Ron lamented: I just want a cross-country Bullet Train.
But Ron didn't say any of this. He just sat, and his mom watched as he parked the car in the parking lot.
"Enough of these silly cars. Let's go outside to play, Ronnie. The sun's about to set, and there's no clouds in the sky."
Ron sighed, thought of the Ron in the future, and reminded himself in his above-average brain, to fight for the Ron to come. So that the sunset in the future can actually be a beautiful sunset — not divine hellfire sent down to smite Elon Musk, who managed to live forever through some combination of NFTs and blockchain that Ron wasn't quite smart enough to understand yet. It was for that future that Ron dedicated his life, to preserve a life worth living for the Ron whose life is completely in his hands. And he followed his mom outside.
"Yes, Mom, I love sunsets!"
Whoosh.